Welcome Home
by Inkblot9
Summary: Some years ago, Europe once again fell into the deadly grip of war. When tiny, vulnerable Belgium decided to implement a draft, none other than Tintin, boy reporter, was called to fight for something he never believed in. He's finally come home, but can life for him and his friends ever truly go back to what it was before? Told through Haddock's eyes. Established character death.
1. Any Minute Now

Any minute now.

I check my watch for what could very well be the hundred-thousandth time in this hour alone. Any minute now, his aeroplane will land. Any minute now, he will walk through that gate. I can't believe I'm about to see him again, after all this time! Thundering typhoons, it's a miracle!

A miracle. I hadn't previously been one to believe in such things, but what other word could I possibly use to describe how I feel now? It's been too many long years since I've seen my best friend; it's been too many depressing days spent wondering if I would ever see him again; it's been too many sleepless nights disturbed by the fear that he was dead. What else could I believe? The chances were slim that even a survivor such as he would last this long.

War could be a death trap for anybody, and some years ago, Europe had once again fallen into its fateful grip, because apparently none of those blistering politicians know how to solve things civilly. Things had looked grim, of course, but neither of us could have anticipated the consequences that were to be pressed upon us directly. It was impossible to forget the events that had slowly led up to what had been perhaps the worst horror imaginable, if only for the both of us, if only for me alone. He had brought my life back to me, so I could no longer imagine my life without him.

Some might have considered us lucky, lucky that our isolated little corner of Belgium had not been as overpopulated by bombs and battles as the rest of the thundering continent. Maybe our house had not been shattered to smithereens like goodness knows how many others, but to me it felt just as broken without the presence of a certain little journalist who I had come to love. I never felt lucky, no matter how many times I, however guiltily, had guzzled a glass or two to ease, perhaps, the pain of it all.

I've been terribly selfish, haven't I? Indulging myself with poisonous luxury in the comfort of my parlour, trying to stop thinking about poor Tintin out there risking his life for something he doesn't even believe in, only ever thinking about how hard it is for me to be without him, when I know he has it so much worse. And to think that all I ever wanted was some peace and quiet! What I wouldn't give, now, to return to our high-flying adventures!

Maybe it all would have felt differently if Tintin himself had chosen to enlist, but he never would have done that. He is and always has been a pacifist through and through, skilled with a gun but never once considering delivering a fatal blow, much better at preventing bloodshed than causing it. He never would have willingly supported anyone else's useless fight. Unfortunately, though, things got so bad that our tiny, vulnerable nation eventually fell back on the death sentence some call the draft, and as luck—or, rather, calamity—would have it, who should be recruited but Tintin, boy reporter?

At first there had been the shock, then the disbelief, then the reassurance, and then the final spark of hope, but time dragged on, and his letters came less and less often, until finally all that remained in their place was the crippling, crushing fear of what on earth could have happened to him! And now look—we're moments away from what could finally be a relief from it all and the return to what life used to be before it had all come spiralling downhill. What madness this has been! What blistering bloody hell we've been through, and all for this one instant—

"Great snakes!"

What seems like music, an uplifting, familiar cadence, to my old ears after such a long time breaks me from my stupor. Blinking my eyes, I find that what merely seconds ago had been an empty airport terminal is now bustling with activity. Men in soldiers' uniforms, young and old—but mostly young, much too young—quickly surround me, and I observe from a distance as they are embraced by their parents, kissed by their spouses, and saluted by their comrades. Something inside my head clicks into place. Could it be that I just heard the voice of the one I'm waiting for?

"CAPTAIN!"

I feel a weight thrust upon me, the impact knocking my cap off my head. After instinctually catching the projectile with both hands, I realise that I was right. Though the face of the boy I knew has hardened, though his ginger hair has lost its lustre, though his trench coat and plus fours are long gone, who else could it be? Who else would be identifying me, of all people, in the midst of this crowd, and leaping into my arms? Who else?

"T-T-Tintin!" I splutter. "It's…it's you, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's me! And—and it's you, Captain!" Despite how much older he looks now, dear Tintin's simultaneous laughter and tears seem to re-release the remnants of his underlying eternal youth and reflect back to the boy he used to be—or still is! Even after the surely horrific experiences he has been through, still, nothing can shake him! "Oh, Captain, I'm just so glad to see you!" he exclaims. Glad to see me—just so glad to see me—could there be any better feeling in the world than this?

I had thought that the past lonely years had exhausted any remainder of tears that could be left in my eyes. Now, I see that I was wrong, but perhaps that's only because I'm not sad anymore. How could I be, at a time like this? "Welcome home, Tintin old lad! Blistering barnacles, how I've missed you!"

I find that I no longer have the muscular capacity to maintain upholding the boy's weight. I set my friend's feet back down on the floor, only to find that though I'm still taller than he is, he's not nearly as little as I'd remembered him to be. I awkwardly reach down to pick up my hat.

"I've missed you, too, Captain, more than you know," Tintin says, a flash of darkness in his otherwise bright eyes betraying the truth behind his words. "And the Professor, too, of course, and everyone…and dear old Snowy! Where is he, anyway? The old rascal! Snowy!"

I hear Tintin whistle for his faithful canine companion and then watch him gaze around in confusion when not met with the sound of paw steps or high-pitched barking. I grit my teeth nervously. Surely, he couldn't have forgotten!

"Tintin," I begin anxiously.

"Yes? Where's…oh." As soon as he notices my apparent tension, Tintin remembers, and the enthusiasm in his voice gives out abruptly. I can almost see the memory crashing over his mind like an ocean wave engulfing a defenceless ship, a position I've been in, both literally and metaphorically, many times over. For a moment, he looks pained, but he quickly conceals that with a second short bout of laughter. It is impossible for me to tell whether it is genuine.

"I suppose I forgot for a minute," he says after collecting himself. "I suppose that in seeing you again, I suddenly felt as if no time had gone by, as if nothing had changed, as if I was still the boy reporter, off on another adventure! It has been a long time, hasn't it?"

It has indeed. Don't I know it.

"It's been a long time since anyone's even called me 'Tintin'! For years it's been nothing but 'Remi' this and 'Remi' that, over and over again." He shakes his head. "Nobody out there saw me for who I really was. Everything rushed back to me when I heard you call me 'Tintin'. That's always been my real name…I finally felt like myself again."

I bite my lip. I don't want to think that the war could have changed Tintin, but was that inevitable after all? I don't want to imagine that his spirit could have been dampened, that he who had been perpetually young through so much turmoil could have finally aged, especially not under these circumstances. Though I'm not sure either way, I try to convince myself otherwise. No doubt the war was awful for him, but it's over now. He's come home, and soon enough everything will go back to the way it was. At least, it better had, or I don't know what we'll do. What I'll do.

I'm suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that the two of us are still standing inconveniently in the middle of a bustling airport. Realising the uncomfortable silence that I was allowing to linger, I break it, suggesting, "How about we head home to Marlinspike?"

The broad smile returns itself to Tintin's face. "I'd like that," he says.


	2. What a Feeling

We're speeding along the country roads that take us out of Brussels into the little village of Moulinsart—home—in the same yellow car I've had for quite a while now, I suppose. I still remember when it was brand-new, though. I had just moved into Marlinspike Hall and everything seemed peaceful, but before I knew it, we—that is, Tintin, Calculus, and I—were off full throttle into another adventure, this time first on the trail of a mysterious illness and then the Professor's kidnapping, from château to crypt and back again. How can that seem like so long ago and just yesterday at the same time?

Neither of us has said much since we've been driving. That's all right, though. I'm happy just to be able to look to my side and see my young friend, leaning his head out of the open window, deep in thought about who-knows-what. Just like always.

"Cuthbert's only just come back from another one of those conference whatnots he always runs off to," I comment, apropos of nothing. "Naturally, no matter what I say to him, it never gets through his head, so he has absolutely no idea you're coming home. He'll be delighted to see you."

"I can't wait," Tintin replies, without turning to face me, without even smiling. Though I don't doubt his sincerity or his devotion, there's something missing in his demeanour that I can't quite put a finger on. Looking back, it's not just disappearing now. Though being on the battlefield certainly made it worse, he has been slowly changing for a while. I guess I'm just realising that now.

"We can only hope that now that you're back we won't have any…er…unexpected droppers-by," I say, only half-joking.

"You're telling me," he agrees. "All I want is some rest, in peace and quiet. No opera soloists or insurance moguls today, please!"

Blue blistering barnacles, he's turning into me! Heaven help us!

"It's not that I don't want to see our friends," he adds hastily. "It's just…" He sighs. "I'm worn out, is all."

I'm not sure what to think. On the one hand, it's only human for him to feel that way. On the other, putting "Tintin" and "worn out" in the same sentence doesn't seem to make much sense. Not to me, anyway. I have seen him tired before—the time in the Arctic Ocean when he passed out in the middle of a conversation comes to mind—but I haven't ever seen him look like this.

Some more time passes in silence. I'm unaware of how much, exactly. The only way I can tell any time has passed is that I have the gates of Marlinspike Hall in front of me and Tintin fast asleep beside me, the late autumn breeze tossing the uneven remains of his distinctive quiff of hair, the sunset playing across his face which, once almost infantile, now fully bears the mark of time.

I park the car and nudge the boy with one elbow. His storm-coloured eyes blink open slowly, and before too long, he recognises where we are. He smiles again, ever so slightly.

"Welcome home, Tintin," I say.

He stretches and yawns. "Home at last? What a feeling."

Quite the feeling or me, too. I plead to whoever's up there that the joy lasts.

I still have to make an effort to convince myself that I'm not dreaming as I walk next to him again, up the ever-familiar marble staircase. It reminds me of the first time we ascended these stairs together, the first day that I could say I owned this place. Not even an hour later, we found Red Rackham's treasure, after searching for it halfway across the world. I can't seem to stop the overflow of nostalgia, especially considering this massive dread I have that those days are not only far behind us, but impossible to regain.

I feel an elbow jab my side and I turn to see Tintin, raising an eyebrow at me in a mix of amusement and frustration. He tilts his head forward a smidge, and there's the door, only centimetres in front of my face! Ten thousand thundering typhoons, I'm hopeless! I'm so distracted that I can't even tell when I'm about to walk straight into a wall!

"You haven't changed a bit, Captain," Tintin teases me.

"Neither have you," I reply. I can only hope that I'm right. Well, if anything, he's still ribbing me as heavily as ever, without meaning any harm. We're both that way. We always have been—and always will be?

He sighs again, looking as if he's biting back his words. Maybe I am wrong after all.

What are we still doing standing here? Oh, Columbus, I'm the one with the key! And we call the Professor the preoccupied one!

I fumble with my pocket for half a mo', which incites a few light chuckles from Tintin's direction. Not that I mind, of course. Not really. Finally, I close my fist around the key, I turn it in the knob, and I swing the door open.

I walk right inside, and, turning behind me, I see Tintin taking a few tentative steps forward. I suppose this is even more unreal for him than it is for me. He's the one who hasn't seen the place in years, after all.

"Are you crying again, lad?"

"No—no, I'm not, I'm just—ah, crumbs…Okay, okay, you got me. Just a little." He swiftly dries his eyes with one finger, and he doesn't stop me when I cast an arm around his shoulders.

Barely have we taken a few steps inside when Nestor the butler walks past, armed with a feather-duster. I'm honestly surprised he's stuck around this long. He worked for the Bird brothers before me, and granted, they turned out to be criminals, but he had no trouble swiftly reassigning his loyalties. I know I'm not always the most pleasant company, but he clearly doesn't mind all that much. He does his job and not a great deal besides that. Sometimes I wish I had taken the time to get to know him better. I'm sure he, just like the rest of us, has a story to tell.

In that moment, he notices us. I can tell it's an effort even for him to retain his composure. "Welcome back, sir," he says with a nod towards me. "Welcome home, Mr Tintin," he adds with a larger smile than I think I've ever seen on his face. He stands there awkwardly, his internal enthusiasm battling with his external poise. Tintin isn't sure exactly how to respond, either. The two eventually subconsciously agree to share a firm handshake.

"Thank you, Nestor," says Tintin, nodding politely. "It's good to be back."

After another self-conscious moment or two, Nestor strides on past us into the next room. I need to remind him to take a breather every once in a while. He deserves a break.

"So, what do you want to—" I begin, before I'm abruptly cut off by the sound of the front door opening behind us. My heart begins to race for a second, and then I'm utterly embarrassed by that fact. It's only the Professor, back from his laboratory. Blistering barnacles! He doesn't know that Tintin was to come home today.

Immediately Calculus's hazel eyes widen behind his horn-rimmed spectacles. He takes them off and wipes them clean with one green sleeve, clearly not believing what he's seeing. Once he realises, however, that his eyes are not deceiving him, he looks as if he could burst from glee. He takes one of Tintin's hands into both of his, his shake much heartier than Nestor's. "Tintin, dear boy! You've come home! Why, I can't believe it! I-I'm overjoyed! It's just so incredibly wonderful to see you looking well, and after all this time, too!"

"I-I've missed you too, Professor." Though of course he's telling the truth, Tintin looks rather disconcerted, where he used to be quite tolerant of our eccentric friend's unpredictable behaviour. "It has been a long time; I'm happy to be home."

"Captain, why on earth didn't you tell me Tintin was returning today? I would have liked to have been more prepared!" Calculus chides me.

I groan. "I tried telling you, Professor," I answer, raising my voice, "but you didn't know what I was talking about!"

"Don't try pulling that on me! You most certainly were not out catching trout! You've been here at the house doing nothing for weeks! Months, even! Don't deny it!"

I glance back at Tintin, raising my eyebrows. His shrugging in response tells me he understands my unspoken message: some things never change.

Breaking off from his bout of irritation, Cuthbert quizzically looks Tintin up and down. "You know, Tintin," he comments, "camouflage really isn't your colour."

"I'll admit I've missed my blue sweaters," Tintin confesses sheepishly.

The Professor suddenly looks concerned. "Oh, I do, too," he says. "I do hope your wounds get better."

Tintin stiffens and grits his teeth, softly sucking in a sharp breath of air and then letting out a short sigh. Whatever upheaval could this innocent mishearing have triggered within him? He looks as perfectly fit and healthy as ever, despite his altered disposition. I try to avoid worrying about it. If there were actually something serious going on with him, he would tell me, right?

This entire day has consisted of nothing but awkwardness, it seems.

"Goodnight, my friends," Calculus says finally, tipping his bowler and abruptly climbing the stairs toward his bedroom. I shake my head. Blistering barnacles, it's barely seven o'clock and he's off to bed, when sometimes it's impossible to pry him from his gadgets before three in the morning. I've never fully understood that man. I don't think I ever will.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Tintin," I declare cheerfully. "So…er…what do you want to do? Do you feel like…eating something? Or I could start a fire, pour us a drink—"

"Captain…" The sternness of the boy's narrowed eyes contrast with the softness of his subtle smile. To tell the truth, I don't mind him reprimanding me, if only it's a sign that he's still the same old Tintin underneath it all.

"Sorry," I mumble. What else can I say? What excuse can I give? As per usual, I'm no good with words—not like him. "Well, it's your call, Tintin. It's your first night back home, after all."

"Actually," he responds, rubbing his eyes with one clenched fist, "I think I'm going to follow the Professor's lead on this one."

I stare back at him, uncomprehending. "You're going up to bed? It's not even—"

"I know, but I could really use a long shower, I'd like to get out of these wretched clothes, and I can't remember the last time I had a solid night's sleep. You understand, don't you?"

"Fair enough," I admit. I stop myself from complaining about how I only wanted to spend some time with him. I need to stop being so self-centred! There'll be plenty of opportunities for that after he's taken some time for himself, which I'm sure he desperately needs. We have all the time in the world, now. "Well…goodnight, then."

"Goodnight, Captain." Tintin stands still for a moment, and then, rather than immediately ascending the limestone staircase, throws his arms around me in a forceful embrace. Taken aback, I slowly reciprocate the gesture. His grasp is powerfully tight, as if he is deathly afraid of something and holding onto me for dear life. In that moment, I know for sure: he's been through something thundering terrible, and it will take a lot—perhaps more than I can give—to repair whatever damage has been done.

"Welcome home," I whisper in his ear, hoping he understands that hidden behind those words is my solemn vow that I will do anything for him, anything and everything I can. It's the least he deserves.

When Tintin finally heads upstairs, I can tell that I won't be getting any sleep tonight. I sit in the parlour, alone, trying to unwind, but instead I'm constantly distracted by the faint sound of the shower running, the flames in the fireplace dancing in the corner of my eye, memory after memory of years past, and the bottle of whisky on the table beside me.


	3. Powerless

Tintin has been home for almost a fortnight now. It has been difficult, to say the least, to coax a conversation out of him, to spark that old enthusiasm and positivity that I used to take for granted. Sure, we've talked to one another, but only about the most insignificant of things, topics so minor that I can't remember what even one of them has been.

Fortunately, we haven't had any visitors. Surprisingly enough, it seems even our most gregarious acquaintances can figure out when some peace is of the utmost importance. I don't think either of us could handle company at this point in time.

We have had a major flood of mail, though. So many of our friends have welcomed Tintin back and wished him well. He read each letter and telegram over and over, tears welling in his eyes each time he did so. "It's nice to feel as if I'm appreciated," he had said when particularly touched by a message from Chang, the young Chinese lad who had been his first real friend—that is, his first real human friend. "I like to feel as if people care." It was his choice of words that worried me. Of course he is appreciated, and by many! Of course people care about him! Didn't he know that by now?

No, looking back now, I recall that we have had visitors. Thompson and Thomson, that pair of ignoramuses, knocked on our door four mornings ago, before Tintin was even awake—and that alone is unsettling, considering the fact that he used to be the early riser around here. I had shooed them off, though, asking whether they hadn't any serious work to do for the first time in their miserable lives, and then slamming the door in their faces before they had a chance to respond. When they rang the doorbell again, I completely ignored them, and before long, they left us. Maybe I came off as a bit too brash, but frankly, those two have had that coming for a long time.

Goodness knows what has prevented the mob of gossip columnists from storming the Hall. I doubt I'd be able to hold up that horde. Honest, courteous, truth-seeking journalists, like Tintin, I can handle. But that other lot? Thousands of thundering typhoons! If I never speak to another man from the _Daily Reporter_, or worse, _Paris-Flash_, it'll be much too soon.

Half the time, Tintin hasn't even been at the house. He's spent most of his recent afternoons speeding off to who-knows-where on his motorbike, alone, its empty basket serving as a painful reminder for him—and for me. Where does the time go?

This morning, presently, we're both seated at the dining table. We finished our modest breakfast quickly and quietly, and now, just seeing him across from me, watching him read the newspaper between sips of tea, with his snow-white shirt collar just visible when he turns a page, it's easy to pretend we're years in the past.

"It's all over," Tintin suddenly announces.

"What's that?"

"Look." He slides the paper across the table to me. "The treaties were finally signed last night. The war's officially over."

So much for "years in the past". I take a glance at the headlines as I light my pipe, but truthfully, I don't really care about all the fine details. Tintin, worldly-minded as he is, is likely to be more concerned with the global provisions, consequences, and whatnot than I am. I'm just happy that no one's still out on the battlefield, and that my dearest friend made it home in one piece!

"That's all over, then, eh? So there's nothing more to worry about?"

Tintin snorts and rolls his eyes. "I wouldn't go that far, Captain."

"What a pessimist you are!" I have joked about this before, when he's acted sceptical, but though he's never believed in any sort of unrealistic perfection, he's almost always been the one to look for the brighter side of things. Now, though, things are evidently different. "Or you've become! Honestly, Tintin," I continue, taking my pipe from my mouth in order to speak more clearly, "you don't seem yourself. Where's that spirit you used to have, eh? What could possibly have changed you so?"

I never thought that I'd ever become so concerned about anyone, let alone that pipsqueak tuft of ginger who suddenly came flying through my porthole one night, when I was expecting that all I was going to do that evening was enjoy a drink. Then again, I never thought that the very man who offered me that drink, and countless others, would be an opium smuggler, either. Life is full of surprises, not all of them pleasant.

The boy lets out a long sigh, resting his head on an open palm as he turns it towards the window and away from me. "Let's just say I'm a different man now, Captain, and leave it at that, all right?"

Previously, he had sounded depressed. Now, he just sounds cold. And Tintin, a man? He's a man now? I suppose that's true and it has been for a long time, but it just doesn't sound right, especially coming from him. While he rarely referred to himself as the "boy reporter", it was long the way everyone else thought of him, his title, almost, and he had always seemed to embrace the lasting youth that he had been blessed with. Until now, that is.

Even as he grew into what most people considered "adulthood", he looked and acted like a boy. Even since he's returned from the war, I've referred to him as such. However, when I take another look at him, he barely seems to resemble the young Tintin, the real Tintin, the Tintin I remember. Why did he have to grow up? Why like this?

He's always been intelligent and mature, so in that sense, he's always been grown-up, but his courage, his innocence, his passion—that's what's left him. That's what's been disappearing, and it started years ago, even before he first heard the news that he was to be called to duty.

Perhaps it began when Snowy passed. That plucky white ball of fluff was Tintin's first and closest companion, even before me—and with good reason. Snowy was loyally by Tintin's side from the get-go, whether getting him out of scrapes or simply refusing to abandon him during them. He was long Tintin's only friend, and I'd always suspected that their bond was even stronger than what was visible on the surface. His death came without warning, though it was not entirely surprising. I don't know how long dogs like him normally live, but considering the fact that he'd been as adventurous as Tintin since the latter was—what? Ten or eleven? It was bound to happen, but it hit Tintin hard, understandably.

No, even before that, I had seen a shift in him. It was when that absolute ectoplasm of a dictator, General Tapioca, was trying to entice us into San Theodoros. After an overblown discussion—no, rather, the first genuine argument Tintin and I had had in a long time—my young friend had outright refused to travel with me, unwilling to get himself caught up in an adventure, preferring to stay within the comforts of home instead. The only reason he finally came and joined the Professor and I was not ambition, honour, or excitement, but guilt! It was as if someone had taken the roles we had played from our friendship's earliest days and completely reversed them, and that worried me.

What had caused this eventual change? Was it the fact that a few months prior to that situation, we had no recollection of whatever adventure we had been through, or if it had been an adventure at all? Had Tintin, who had been the unflappable truth-seeker for years on end, felt stripped of any ability he ever possessed when he was faced with a mystery that even he knew he could not solve? Was he finally afraid of something, of being faced with an unfamiliar situation and not immediately having a plan?

"I'm powerless," Tintin finally says, without being prompted, as if he read my mind. "I have seen firsthand the real horror of war, and I soon found I could do nothing to stop it. I thought that in fighting I might have a chance to do my country justice, but what I did, what everyone did, was justice to no one."

Now that he's finally talking, this may be my only chance to speak up. "Tintin, what—what exactly was so…so terrible?"

"Everything," is his only response, paired with a shrug.

"Everything?"

"Everything! The constant fear…the tremendous, irrepressible danger—"

"You've never been one to do anything but laugh in the face of danger," I scoff.

"For a time," he concedes, "yes, but this was too much for me. You can't even imagine, not until you see it: so many men, so young, younger than me, were dying, constantly, falling to their knees all around me…It was murder, Captain! That's all it was! Murder on the grandest of scales!"

It's happened to me before: you don't say a thing for days and then suddenly everything you've been thinking just spills out, overflowing like water rushing out of a broken dam. I don't interrupt him. I just sit there and listen.

"And worst of all, those who killed were not considered criminals, but heroes! I don't understand it at all. How does so much bloodshed work to solve the world's problems? If that's somehow much more effective than civilized diplomacy, then I guess everything I've believed all my life was completely wrong…"

I want to reassure him. I really do. But my words often fail me, and now is no exception.

"I guess you don't know what war really is until you've spent so much time away from the ones you love that you forget the sounds of their voices, until your every dream is haunted by your own bloodstained hands, until you're driven only by your primal instinct to survive and you don't realise what you've done until another lifeless body falls at your feet!" His voice rises little by little, until its emptiness is replaced entirely by bitterness and he slams a fist down on the table.

"What I wouldn't have done to take your place," I murmur. Ironically enough, when this whole mess began I thought that if anyone would be thrown into the fray, it would be me, considering all the years I spent in the employ of the merchant navy. Of all the times the powers that be could've chosen to finally recognise my retirement, this was certainly not the most convenient.

"What would that have done? Killed somebody else? Killed you? Destroyed what you believed in?" he exclaims. "I wish I could forget it all ever happened, but really, I needed to learn," he adds after a minute. "I needed to understand that I couldn't be naïve or arrogant any longer. I couldn't pretend that I could carry the whole weight of the world on my own and everything would turn out perfectly fine!"

"But…you've done so much…" I protest weakly. "For heaven's sake, Tintin, you've prevented war before!"

"Not alone. Not without my friends by my side."

"You weren't alone!"

"Right," he responds, his voice thick with sarcasm, "I wasn't alone. I was surrounded by hundreds of people I had never met and didn't know a thing about. I had plenty to work from."

"You were fighting for something, though, weren't you? Defending us from the enemy? There had to be a reason somewhere!"

"I'm sure there was, somewhere! But the real enemy wasn't out there on the front line! The men out there fighting, those risking their lives, were just obeying orders, doing what they believed to be right. No one can blame them for that. Who's to say we weren't in the wrong the whole time, anyway?" He sinks deeper in his chair, sighing. Some more time passes, painfully slowly.

"Eventually I figured out that I didn't know why I was there. I had no motivation except staying alive for one more moment. The weeks turned into months, into years, into eternities. And all the while I felt as if none of it was real, that one day very soon I'd wake up in my bedroom at Marlinspike after a long dream, and you'd be there to tell me, as always, that it was in fact a dream and nothing more. But there was no awakening from this nightmare. Even since I've returned home, I've felt that same feeling of detachment from it all, from life itself, as if I were in fact dead, nothing but a ghost left lingering on the surface of this miserable earth."

I stare at him sombrely, racking my brains for the perfect thing to say that will convince him that everything can, and will, be all right again. My heart could burst with sorrow. He doesn't deserve to feel this way! Nobody does! "Tintin—I—"

"Forget it," he mutters. "I don't want to go over this any longer. No matter how much I talk about it, it won't change a thing."

"But just look at you!" I exclaim. "Blistering barnacles! Look at you! You've come home! You survived! You made it through what so many other men could not, and none the worse for wear, really—"

"That's what you think, is it?"

I watch confusedly as Tintin grips the bottom corner of his shirt and stretches it upwards. With the light blue pullover and, underneath that, the white button-up, both pulled back, his pale, bare chest is visible, as well as a long crimson scar that seems to tear it into two. My mouth falls open with horror. Of all the hits he's taken, this is the first lasting sign of injury I've ever seen.

"Some months ago," he begins, choking on his words as he readjusts his clothing, "I was shot at—by whom, I don't know. I tried to dodge the blast…but I wasn't quick enough…The bullet sliced deep across my chest. I was the closest I'd ever been to death."

Says the one who's been shot at least thrice prior, the one who's been the target of countless outlaws, the one who was once mere moments away from being cast in polyester!

"I was unconscious for days. They all told me it was a miracle I had lived, but I thought the opposite entirely. Death would have been a release, an escape, a full surrender to the fact that life as I knew it was over. Yes, it was selfish of me to wish for that, but I sure didn't want to keep fighting for everyone else when nothing was coming of it! I hated the man I'd become. I wanted to be rid of him. If other people wanted to remember me as some brave war hero, fine; at least I wouldn't have to deal with it any longer…"

Tintin had wanted to die. Tintin! I can't wrap my mind around it. Tintin had wanted to die and likely still does.

"I had laid motionless for weeks, waiting for death, hoping for death, but it never came. I didn't see battle again after that. When we were finally reunited, I thought I could forget it all for a little while. I deluded myself into a false sense of relief. But underneath all that, I couldn't truly shake the feeling: why did I deserve to live, if thousands of others did not?"

"Why would you deserve to die," I counter, "if thousands of others did not?"

"All right, then, you still think I'm the perfect hero?" He practically sneers with contempt. "You think I had the ability to make some enormous change and triumph over every evil? Tell me, then, please, what could I have done to prevent any of this? If I had so much power and influence, what should I have done? What could I, or anybody else, have possibly done differently?" Without waiting for a response, he abruptly stands up and marches away, leaving my jaw half-open and the rest of me completely without words.


	4. The Boy Reporter

I knock on Tintin's bedroom door, one, two, three times. We haven't exchanged a single word since two mornings ago, and I've barely seen him since then, either. I hope he's all right: relatively speaking, that is. "Tintin? You in there?"

"Come in, Captain." His voice comes dejectedly from inside. The door creaks discordantly as I slowly push it open. I see him lying on his bed, his arms folded behind his head and a newspaper folded across his chest. Moonlight filters in through the window blinds, half-illuminating his shattered expression and his bleary red eyes. He's been crying again, but he didn't want me to see it—that much is obvious.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask, because I know I have a thing or two to say to him, at last. He doesn't respond for some time.

"I've been in the military three times before," he ultimately says, hollowly, staring up at the ceiling. I don't know whether he is actually talking to me or just releasing his thoughts into space, but either way, I pull up a chair to sit down and listen.

"All three times were before I met you."

All right, then, he is talking to me.

"Once in Russia, once in Arabia, and once in San Theodoros—as General Alcazar's aide-de-camp, of all things! But all three of those times, I was searching for something greater. I had a purpose, a purpose other than blind destruction. And I never saw any real combat, because I always ended up elsewhere after a few days. I was young and I was ambitious. I had no idea what I might have gotten into."

Maybe I should keep my mouth shut for now. I don't know if I'm just curious or what, but I want to know what's on his mind.

"When I actually saw reality, well, that was the end of that. My whole life, I thought I had to keep pushing myself to the extreme, so I wouldn't lose any ground. If I stopped to take a breath, or thought too much about what I was doing, everything would come crashing down. No matter what, I couldn't stop moving! I never wanted to stop moving…and when I did stop, I had no motivation to get myself back up again."

"What do you mean, 'stop moving'?" I question, though I think I'm beginning to understand.

"I-I don't know. It was a gradual thing, I suppose. When Signora Castafiore descended upon us, I felt as if there was too much to deal with at home to justify whizzing across the globe on a whim. When we all suffered that strange collective amnesia, I decided to just shake it off and accept it—relieving on one hand, defeating on the other. I became anxious of travel, almost, and by the time the trouble in Tapiocapolis rolled around, I was more apprehensive than anything else. Instead of thinking of what I could do, I only figured I couldn't do much of anything, and why should I bother? I felt terrible—that's why I eventually hopped on a plane and joined you. I was able to succeed in carrying out the General's revolution without bloodshed, but, knowing him, that was a shallow, temporary victory. Who knows what's happened since then?" He sits up, crossing his legs. The newspaper slides to the floor.

"After the whole Alph-Art ordeal, I felt more confident than I had in some time. Then the war came along, and snatched that confidence right back up. Eventually I had reached the point of just lying there hopelessly, without any drive whatsoever. Every movement I'd ever had had ground to a complete stop. When I came home, I felt like I should have been perfectly happy and relieved. When I wasn't, I wondered if there was something wrong with me. I forced myself to get out of bed, to read the paper, to dress like I used to, to leave the house, all in a vain attempt to be myself again. I thought it would've been easy, but I was met with no success. It makes more sense, though, that things would be different now. I don't know why I ever thought otherwise."

"Why do things have to change?" I demand. It's a rhetorical question, yet part of me is hopelessly yearning for an answer. "You've changed, and—"

"Of course I've changed!" Tintin interrupts matter-of-factly. "People change! It happens! You can't sit there and tell me you're the same man you were, ten, fifteen years ago! In time, everything passes. C'est la vie, capitaine."

I cast my gaze downwards self-consciously, and my eyes fall upon the newspaper that Tintin had been reading before I entered. It is an old issue of none other than _Le Petit Vingtième_: the very paper that kick-started his career, the paper that would make him famous. Despite how far he had gone beyond that, how did everyone know him? "Tintin, boy reporter". Primarily, above everything else, that was his occupation. That was what gave him his name. I think I just might be getting an idea!

"You've been through hell and back, haven't you?"

"You could say that." Neither anger nor sadness remains in Tintin's voice. There is only the hollow resonance of resignation, of total defeat.

"Your entire world view has been shaken. You've lost your innocence and your motivation, your very will to live. You feel completely powerless."

"What of it?" he grumbles, scowling.

"You're not. You're not powerless. You're not giving yourself nearly enough credit for—"

"Stop it, Captain! Don't lie to me! What could I possibly do at this point?" He throws his hands in the air, frustrated. Hang on, Tintin. I'm getting to that.

"Tintin, before all of this began, what did you do for a living?" I question calmly.

"I was a journalist," he replies, without hesitation, without even blinking. "And? You knew that. Everyone knew that."

"Would you ever have left home for a world full of adventure if you hadn't gotten that job first?"

"I suppose not." He furrows his brow in thought. "My first trip abroad was my first assignment as a foreign correspondent, and…what are you getting at?"

"I'm saying that though you might have solved mysteries, and uncovered secrets, and brought criminals to justice…though you might have been the first man on the moon, for Columbus's sake…"

Tintin winces, as if remembering all of his triumphant achievements only serves to enforce the idea that they can never be relived. Stay with me, Tintin. I promise you I'm going somewhere.

"Though you may have been every inch the hero in every sense of the word," I continue, "before that, you were a reporter."

Tintin raises his eyebrows.

"If you can't be a…a globetrotting defender of justice anymore, so be it! Even if you never leave this house again, you'll still have everything it takes to be a great writer! You can't just throw away your natural talent, not now! Thundering typhoons! You say you know the truth now? Well, then, write about it! Put it all out there! Isn't that what a journalist is supposed to do, tell the truth? People seem to have forgotten that these days, what with all the riffraff that's only concerned with making money off of celebrities and falsehoods!"

"Heh." He covers his faint laughter with one hand. He knows what I'm referring to: the time when it became popular belief that I was to marry la Castafiore! What an ordeal!

"I say you go for it," I state more casually, leaning back in my chair.

"But…" Tintin sighs. It's almost as if he doesn't want to believe there could be any respite from his misery. "…what would that change?"

"Maybe nothing," I admit. "Maybe everything! Who knows? At the very least, you'll be able to get some weight off your own shoulders! Maybe it's high time you did something for yourself, instead of trying to save everyone else's blistering behind! Maybe you don't need to carry the weight of the world. Maybe you just need to carry your own weight, and everyone else can deal with their own problems!"

I am in a frenzy now, almost. I can't stop the words from coming. "I know I'm just a crusty old sea-dog, and I don't know all that much about the world. I could be completely wrong! But I just don't want to see you like this any longer! I want the old Tintin back: if not the adventurous side of him, then the optimistic, thoughtful, confident ones, at least! I've practically missed you more since you've been home!"

"Captain…?"

"Just give it a shot, all right?" I plead. "For me?" I look him straight in the eyes. "For you?"

He breaks the stare, glancing in the opposite direction. "Captain, this is my life, and my trouble to deal with, not yours. Why are you trying so hard? You don't need to."

What a question! Does he truly not understand, in spite of everything? "Do you remember," I ask softly, "when the two of us were hanging off that mountain cliff, in Tibet?"

Though he doesn't respond, I can tell he does recall: both of us, dangling perilously, and my furious insistence that one of us needed to cut the rope, thus releasing my weight so he could go on. I would sooner see my own body smashed to pieces than Tintin's frozen solid. Even if I disagreed with what he was doing, that didn't mean I was about to watch him die!

"I would have done anything for you, then, and I still would." My lower lip trembles just the tiniest bit.

"But…why?"

"You know how you feel terrible if you abandon a friend! Ten thousand thundering typhoons, Tintin, do I even need a reason? If you care about someone, that's beyond enough! And considering all the times you've saved my life, I'm rather inclined to return the favour!"


	5. Welcome Home

I've completely lost track of the days now. Winter must be upon us, though, I recognise, as I wake to a chill in the air, and dazzling light shining in my face—what is that? I blink open my eyes, squinting and cringing. It's too early for this!

"Billions of blistering…" I mutter a myriad of curses under my breath as I drowsily meander over to the wide window on the other side of my bedroom. When I spread the curtains open wide, I find the source of the glare: rays of sun reflecting across a thick layer of white, and a few heavy clouds that hint at more snow to come. This is far from the dead, barren landscape I recall from yesterday, much more uplifting. Some people, me included, see the winter months as drab and deathly, but somehow today's vista is refreshing. I know Calculus won't be too pleased, though. He's been developing a species of rose to survive the cold, but as far as I can tell from here, most all of them are done for.

I make my way into my bathroom, still half-asleep. When I look in the mirror, I can hear Tintin's voice echoing inside my head: _You can't tell me you're the same man you were, ten, fifteen years ago._ I still look the same: black hair, black beard, blue eyes, a little rough around the edges, but I'm still the same, the same old Archibald Haddock.

Or am I? Ten, fifteen years ago, or however long it's been, I was the steadfast captain of the Karaboudjan, and nothing could stand in my way. Or so I thought: eventually, my crew, and my first mate, who at that point I considered my only friend, snuck up on me from behind. I became a whisky-sodden wretch, blind to the most obvious of crimes occurring right in front of my face. Maybe things have changed: maybe I'm more sensible, maybe I'm more considerate, maybe I'm a little less attached to the bottle than I used to be.

So I was a youthful thrill-seeker, once. I've also been an old alcoholic at rock-bottom. I've been plenty of things in between, as well, and now I'm—what, exactly? A concerned friend, an overly nostalgic worrier? Such is life, I suppose; _c'est la vie_, Tintin had said. We wear all these masks, each face a different portrayal of another piece of the whole. Or are they all false, shaped only by what we currently happen to be experiencing? Does nobody have any true identity? Was the Tintin I knew, or thought I knew, a lie from the start?

What's that sound? Something's coming from down the hall, a sort of _tack-tack-tack_. I suppose Cuthbert could be fiddling with one of his gizmos, but he normally does that in his lab. Maybe Nestor's hammering in a nail somewhere. Oh, why don't I just go and look? I'm already up. I might as well.

The noise increases as I pass through the house, the vibrations torrential and erratic. _Tack-tack-tack-TACK-tack_. I can't put my finger on it, but it sounds familiar somehow.

I pass by Tintin's room, softening my steps so as not to disturb him, and then I stop. Leaning my head forward, I can tell that the sound is coming from in there. What? He likely isn't even up yet, and—

"Is that you, Captain?"

Blistering barnacles! Did I wake him? He sounds distracted, out of it. The _tack-tack-tack_ continues furiously. What's going on in there?

I push open the door gently, and, rather than finding Tintin lying stagnant in his bed as I expected, I see him seated at his desk, fully dressed and alert, his hair looking perfectly tidy for the first time in weeks, maybe longer. He's _tack-tack-tacking_ away at his typewriter! That old thing still works?

"Tintin?"

Slightly startled, he tilts his head upwards. The _tack-tack-tack_ stops abruptly. "Oh! Good-morning, Captain! I thought that was you out there. I didn't wake you, did I?" He slides his chair back and faces me straight on as I remain standing in the doorway. He bears a genuine smile. The colour has begun to return to his cheeks and the twinkle to his eyes. All right, if I wasn't dreaming when his plane landed, I'm certainly dreaming now.

"No, don't worry. The confounded sun in my face woke me." I snort.

"Shall I order it to eclipse itself again, just for you?" His grin widens, and I have to laugh too. That was an adventure to remember! "But seriously, though," he adds, taking on a more solemn expression, "I've been thinking about what you said that day. And you were right, Captain."

I was? Really? What about?

"Things can't go back perfectly to the way they were. I lost a part of myself on the battlefield that I can never regain."

My throat tightens. It's true, I know, but it's still so hard to hear!

"But," Tintin continues, "I lost a part of myself when Snowy died, when we lost our memories, when I first said good-bye to Chang in China, and plenty of other times. I'm sure I lost a part of myself when I hopped on that train for Moscow so long ago! But now that I've thought about it, who's to say I didn't gain anything from those experiences, as well? Changes happen, tragedies happen. They mangle and twist us all every which way…but what matters is if, when, and how we straighten ourselves out again. I doubt I'll see the world the same way from now on. I may very well never travel farther than Brussels again. Maybe my adventurous days are in fact behind me…but I can't just crouch in a corner and feel sorry for myself! I survived this far—so what am I going to do to make the life I was given worthwhile?"

He has grown up. He's grown up into a brave, wise, and incredibly strong young man that in this moment I couldn't be prouder of. I still see the pain he's borne written on his face, but alongside that, I see a determination, not to defeat the pain entirely, but to move with it, to gain new strength from it.

"Terribly sorry for disturbing you," I mumble after a minute or two. "You're busy, and I just barged right in on you…"

"Think nothing of it." Tintin waves a hand dismissively. "It was you, Captain, who showed me sense, after all."

"No, it was you who showed me sense," I argue, "all those years ago, when we met, and time and again after that."

"Well, thank you, then," he says with a chuckle, "for returning the favour."

"Speaking of favours, do you want me to leave you alone now?"

He ponders that for a second. "I do have a story to write," he replies, "but nobody said I couldn't take a break for a while."

"How about I make us a fire, then?" I suggest. "It's a bit nippy today!" Look at me, being so generous. Tintin and I, we do truly bring out the best in one another.

"That sounds marvellous. Just let me finish this one paragraph and I'll join you." As soon as he speaks those words, he turns back to his work: _tack-tack-tack_.

"You want to share a drink, too, perhaps?"

"Captain!" Tintin slams his hands on the desk in mock annoyance.

"All right, all right! I'm kidding! It's too early for alcohol anyway! Even I know that!"

He laughs, and it begins again: _tack-tack-tack_.

I walk towards the stairs—no, I stride, I leap, I practically dance, because seeing Tintin smile, smile for real, is liberating for me as well. And to think that perhaps I played a role in lifting his spirits, well, is that not complete perfection?

Well, no. Life's far from perfect. We'll still have hard days and times when we wish things were different, as every man does. I'm not going to fool myself into thinking I'm never again going to yearn for the past. However, though things have certainly changed, at least now I feel that my best friend in this world is, finally, truly here with me again. At least now I feel that maybe, no matter whatever fresh hell life may throw at us, we might get through it—together.

"Welcome home," I murmur as I grip the banister, fully aware that Tintin can no longer hear me. "Welcome home, Tintin, my dear friend."


End file.
